


Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before

by stilitana



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Gen, Light-Hearted, Mostly? Consider it a Canon Embellishment more or less, Season/Series 03, Slice of Life, relatively speaking that is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22201783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilitana/pseuds/stilitana
Summary: Jon returns from his kidnapping to find that his assistants need some training in the proper art of recording statements.(I thought it would be fun to hear Jon's reaction to MAG 100 and hence, this fic was born.)
Relationships: Archives Crew, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 13
Kudos: 290





	Stop Me If You've Heard This One Before

**Author's Note:**

> Hello dear reader! This was meant to be less angsty than it turned out, but alas...the source material prohibited my attempt at true light-heartedness. MAG 100 did crack me up though, and I imagine that Jon was not amused if/when he ever heard those...compelling testimonies.
> 
> Set between MAG 101 and MAG 102 when Jon is (briefly) present at the Institute after taking “Michael’s” statement/being kidnapped and leaving again on his grand world tour. Quotations are from MAG 86. Also I am from the U.S. so cannot hope to properly approximate UK manners of speech and etc. Feel free to point out my inadequacies as I would find it interesting, but be aware...they are there.
> 
> I can be contacted on tumblr @[stilitana](https://stilitana.tumblr.com/). As always, comments and critique are welcome, and thank you for reading! :)

Jon slinks through the institute doors looking ragged and threadbare and with such a scorched intensity in his eyes that the receptionist, Rosie, merely nods slowly when he pauses in the lobby to blink at her and then presses a finger to his lips. He slips on by, still the same awkward hunching in his shoulders and swift, jerky step but a new rigid cast to his body, as though during his long absence he has somehow become wound impossibly tighter. Rosie’s finger hovers over the intercom button on her desk phone, ready to dial Elias’ extension. Then she lets it go. She has a feeling that if the boss doesn’t already know his favorite employee has returned, he will very soon. She makes it a point not to become too closely involved in whatever goes on with the archival staff. They all do. 

Jon hurries through the institute’s drab, winding halls, resolutely avoiding eye contact with any other workers he passes, pressing himself to the walls when they go by. He ignores any odd looks cast his way. In the back of his mind, he is dimly aware that he must be quite a sight, but can’t find it within himself to care. He never cared what they thought before he started turning into a – whatever it is he’s turning into. Why start now? 

Michael, or the thing Michael became, or that became Michael, or the thing Michael wasn’t – _its_ statement played back in his mind over and over. How Gertrude had burned through her own assistants like they were nothing more than fodder. How they had trusted her, how she had taken their trust and twisted it until they gave themselves over for her designs gladly. _Is a thing evil when it simply obeys its own nature?_ Michael had asked. Although Jon had gotten the sense it wasn’t really a question. It was so very much like the sentiment expressed by several statement givers ( _But you can’t fight what you are. Or even what you aren’t._ ) that it took his breath away. His thoughts were starting to loop. Nothing like a full picture was coming together, but his mind was picking up the threads of inconsistent repetition – names, places, turns of phrase. He’d said such words himself, once, before he even knew how deep he was in – _How many of these monsters were once people? Unable to resist their new natures. They don’t even think like people anymore._

Did he think like people? Did people think like this – with the stitched together fragments of a hundred stranger’s voices describing their darkest secrets and the worst moments of their lives? 

Before going into Elias’ office, he steels himself for confrontation. He needs to be relentless. He needs to be strong, have a little backbone, not give in. It is vital that he not bend. Like he always bends. Permitting more and more inhumanity until the bar has shifted so far he can’t see it anymore, and then how will he ever find his way back? 

Elias is a murderer. Jon has never killed anyone. That, surely, must count for something? 

He gives a dry, humorless laugh and barges into the office where Elias is waiting and smiling at him as though he beheld the return of the prodigal son. And he feels his resolve begin to droop and wither. 

Were the stakes not so high, the unknowns so vast, then he knows the only good and sane thing to do would be to turn Elias over to the police, no matter the personal cost. But the stakes just might be the world as they know it, or at least their own lives, and he would very much like to stay alive and never have another person hurt because of him. And the unknowns gnaw on him, a literal feeling of hollow appetite in his gut. So when Daisy barges in to kill Elias, Jon does what Elias says. He stops her. 

In the aftermath, the archives go strangely quiet as everyone drifts away from the commotion, retreating to their separate corners. Jon feels them watching him as he walks from Elias’ office across the floor to his own, eyes fixed on the ground. 

“That it, then?” Melanie says. “You fuck off god knows where for a month, leave us here with that vicious freak, and now we’re just supposed to carry on as though we aren’t prisoners here, as though this place is normal?” 

“I did try to warn you,” Tim says, his voice so dry and brittle it makes Jon wince as he remembers how warm and rich Tim’s laugh had once sounded. 

Jon keeps walking. His whole body aches, his mind feels fuzzy and disorganized, thoughts scattering like beads of oil on water. The odd dissociative see-through feeling that had settled into him while speaking to Michael has yet to fully abate, and he rubs his hands up and down his arms as though to dispel the numb tingling. The pins and needles go deeper than the skin though, and he wonders idly if this is just going to be another new scar to deal with. He feels nothing more than disinterested curiosity at the thought. As though it’s all happening to someone else, someone who doesn’t matter much. He feels unmoored, adrift. Unsure where he ends and thin air begins. Can they see his thoughts, bleeding out into the air? How much do they know? 

The familiar ugly nausea of paranoia makes his breath hitch. No. No, he’s not going to do that again. That time is over. His hand hurts. God, his hand hurts badly. He hasn’t unwrapped the bandages to look at it in a while. He should have gone to a doctor but it’s too late for that now. There was so much physical therapy even after Jane and her infestation, and that had been when he still half bothered taking basic care of his body. It’s never going to be the same. Maybe if he just never unwrapped it, he could go on pretending it was still just burns keeping his hand curled and aching and painful, and not scar tissue. Not the result of his own negligence. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Melanie says. “Don’t you turn your back on me, Jonathan Sims. It’s your fault we’re all in this, the least you could do would be to – but what did I expect? Fine. Go hide in your office.” 

“J-Jon,” Martin says. “What happened to your hand?” 

Jon gets one hand on the doorknob to his office. He can all but hear the statements on his desk singing their wretched siren’s call. His head throbs. He wants nothing more than to get this door shut behind him, a physical barrier between himself and these people who hurt too much to look at, to lose himself for a few minutes in someone else’s story. He stops and says, “You’re right.” He clears his throat when his voice comes out quiet and hoarse, and turns around. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should – say something, try to explain. I wish I could, Melanie. I wish I had something – anything reassuring to say to you, to all of you.” 

He glances at them each in turn, unable to look at them for long before darting his gaze back to the ground, to the walls. He winces when he looks at Basira, thinks of her signing her name while Elias watches her with that knowing smile. It was a look he’d become acquainted with when he first began working for the institute, and Elias took an odd interest in him. He hadn’t known why, then. He’d done his best to hide it, but the truth was that it – it had flattered him. Having his boss notice him, acknowledge his work. It just makes him feel sick now, to think of it. How easily he’d been played for a fool. 

He clears his throat again and makes an effort at affecting the tone he used to take, in the early days, when reading statements. Safe, protected, reserved. Messy emotions hidden neatly away behind crisp enunciation and academic dispassion. “I would have been here – or at least in touch – if I could have. I didn’t mean to be gone so long, but there were – something came up. I was being held hostage, actually. Rest assured I am no happier with our current... _situation_ than any of you are, but at the moment I think that all we can do is...our jobs. For now. We can talk, but – just give me a moment to – just give me a moment, please,” he says, and then yanks open the door to his office and shuts it behind him, his heart pounding wildly. 

He leans against the door and breathes in the familiar smell. Old paper, the musty close smell of the air in the archives, leather. This office felt like safe haven once. Now it is as discomfiting as it is comforting. He fiddles with the tape recorder in his pocket, runs the pad of his thumb along its grooved side, and ventures to examine the stacks and boxes on his desk. 

He doesn’t have long before Martin comes in, looking hesitant and with such a small, fragile flicker of hope that it's all Jon can do to swallow a lump in his throat and look away, fingers clenching around the tape recorder in his pocket, the one that stops and starts of its own accord these days, just like all the others. And then they talk. Martin is, predictably, worried, but doing his best not to be overbearing, and Jon appreciates the effort. He couldn’t take much fussing right now and doesn’t want to snap at Martin, who is looking at him with such genuine concern. Concern for Jon, not about him. He is beginning to treasure the difference. Martin’s worry is entirely about his wellbeing and not at all about his humanity, as though the latter could still be taken for granted. Jon is so, so grateful he could just – he doesn’t know. Maybe in other times, before Prentiss...but things are different now. He is different. 

And so is Martin. When Jon hears the others have been reading statements, it takes him a moment to parse what exactly his reaction is. Surprise, certainly. And then concern. 

“Are the others helping you?” 

“Oh, well, yeah, you know, when they can.” 

“Make sure they do. Martin, please don’t -- take it easy, with the statements, all right? I don’t care what Elias tells you. They can be...a lot.” 

“Oh.” Martin stares at him for a moment, his look too complicated to read. Or maybe Jon is just too much of a coward to read it. And then Martin gives that nervous, self-deprecating little laugh that used to make Jon grit his teeth but now just makes him sad while simultaneously loosening the knot of tension in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed hearing it. Or that he’d missed it at all. He blinks, blindsided by some great gulf of feeling he doesn’t dare look at head-on. “I know. I mean, I knew, before, what they were about and all, but I didn’t really – I don’t know how you do it.” 

“Someone has to.” 

“Do they, though?” 

Jon just stares at him and Martin laughs again, fidgeting with his sleeves. “Right. No, I – yeah. For now. I get it. But Jon, are you – really, are you all right?” 

“Yes. I will be.” 

“Your hand–” 

“It’s nothing. Just a burn.” 

“Oh.” 

“But I’m – don’t worry about me, Martin. Are – are _you_ all right?” 

Martin looks flustered and Jon feels a pang at how surprised and taken aback the other man is, watching Martin look down and wet his lips and huff out another breathy little laugh. Has he really been so callous that Martin thinks he wouldn’t care about his wellbeing? 

“Oh, I’m – you know me,” Martin says. “I just – steady as she goes, and all that. No worries here.” 

“Really, Martin, I–” 

“I’m fine, Jon,” Martin says. His tone shuts Jon up at once. It’s firm and there’s a warning edge to it that he decides to heed, at least for now. If Martin doesn’t want to be fussed over – well, there’s a certain irony there, but he can understand. Martin’s voice is softer as he goes on. “Just -- just tired, is all, like everyone.” He nods at a box on Jon’s desk. “I gathered some of the stuff we’ve been working on there, for if you – for when you came back. Some research and a few statements and such I thought you’d want. Not that the statements are...well. You know. It’s not the same if it isn’t you taking them.” 

The phrase is somewhat odd, but Jon might have let it slide without comment had Martin’s tone not aroused suspicion. It was purposefully light, as though Martin were treading carefully around an exposed nerve he didn’t want to hit. But why? Why did he think Jon would take offense to them recording statements? He knew he could be...perhaps _intense_ about the statements, sometimes, but that didn’t warrant this sensitivity on Martin’s part. “What do you mean, it’s not the same?” 

“Well, I don’t – you know, Jon.” 

“I don’t think I do.” 

“It’s just – I don’t know what it is, it’s just a thing, okay? We don’t have to talk about it right now. Do you want tea? I’m going to have some,” Martin says, and then retreats from the office, closing the door behind him. He – well, he fled, really. Jon blinks at the closed door for a moment before letting out a heavy breath. 

“Okay,” he says, and picks up the first cassette and begins to listen. 

Melanie and Basira are flicking pellets of rolled up notebook paper at each other across a long desk while Tim watches with dull, glazed over eyes and Martin struggles valiantly to focus on his research when Jon’s office door bursts open and they all look up with wary anticipation. 

Jon clutches a tape recorder, looking flushed and flustered. “Excuse me,” he says, his voice comically thin and distraught before he clears his throat and lowers it. He holds up a cassette, schooling his expression into something prim and stern. “What is this?” 

“Something awful, I’m sure,” says Tim. 

Jon takes a breath and lets it out through his nose. “Listen. I know things have been – less than ideal around here, lately.” 

“Is that really how you’d put it?” Basira says. 

“Okay, things have been _bad_. But I would have still thought that while I was away, you’d have continued to take this seriously. Take – the statements seriously, at least.” 

“You weren’t even here, and you’re going to critique our work performance? Seriously?” Melanie says. 

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d – listen, I know Elias asked you to record, or so I’ve been told, but I’d rather you just – leave the statements alone. Don’t read them, don’t look at them, don’t even think about them if you aren’t going to – just don’t.” 

“You warned us he’d get jealous,” Melanie mutters, looking at Martin, who blushes and shoots her a glare. 

“Fine by me,” Tim says. 

“But, Jon – Elias did ask, and – and well, there are a lot of statements, don’t you think you could – use the help, a little bit?” Martin says. 

Jon licks his lips, looks cornered. “I – I just – one moment, please.” 

He hurries across the floor with quick, jerky steps, knocks primly on Elias’ office door before letting himself in. Melanie walks over to the door and leans close. 

“What are you doing?” Martin hisses. 

Melanie just presses a finger to her lips. In a moment, Basira joins her. Martin looks around, bites his lip, and then goes to hover beside them. 

“–don’t appreciate you delegating work to my assistants without asking me first, Elias.” 

“Well, Jon, you weren’t exactly making yourself available. What would you have them do, just sit there gathering dust?” 

“No, but I – there's other work to be done.” 

“Other than what?” 

“You _know_ what.” Jon’s voice goes high and distressed, and Martin can imagine him wringing his hands. “They’re – the statements, they have to be done a certain way, the _right_ way, understand? I don’t like them – they just don’t – they aren’t _right_ , and it’s just not necessary to have other people touching – I mean, recording them, or doing anything with them, I have a – there's a certain way they’re supposed to be – not anybody can just – and it’s like those ones are used up now, and it won’t be the same when I re-record them, which I have to do, but it won’t feel the same, because I already listened to them, they’re – just _less_ now. And it isn’t -- I don’t think it’s safe, either. They – get into your head. I would feel better if on just this one thing at least you would _listen_ to me.” 

“This sounds like a management issue, Jon. If you haven’t trained your staff properly, well, that’s really your own shortsightedness, isn’t it? I suggest you speak with your assistants and address these concerns yourself.” 

The smug mockery in Elias’ tone turns Martin’s stomach. It’s almost as nauseating as the desperate, helpless confusion in Jon’s voice as he stammered and raved about the statements. Martin feels sick. He wishes he’d never touched those damn papers. But he knows it’s not his fault, Jon’s distress. He doesn’t know who or what’s fault it is, exactly, but he is beginning to suspect that it is the same force which makes him feel the uncomfortable sensation of a heavy gaze prickling the back of his neck nowadays every moment he is in the institute. 

He shouldn’t have told Jon they’d recorded. Should have filed the damn recordings away, never mentioned them. Only it wouldn’t have felt right, somehow. And although it goes against everything in his nature, his need to be of use, he doesn’t think there’s anything he can do to protect Jon from this. To protect any of them from this. 

“Get back,” Melanie hisses, and they all scramble away from the door and try to look busy when it creaks open and Jon steps out. He stands there regarding them for an awkward moment, straightening his shirt and fiddling with the tape recorder. He sniffs and holds up the cassette stiffly. 

“Right,” Jon says. “So. It seems I’ve been somewhat neglectful of my duties in regards to properly training you all.” 

“It’s the best thing about your management style,” Tim says. “Feel free to go on as if we aren’t here.” 

“No. No, let’s – let’s talk about this. I was maybe a little harsh earlier, I was just – surprised. So. Statements. Let’s go over how we record statements.” 

“Not much to it really, is there?” Basira says. “You find one, you read it, done.” 

“Well, that’s – the general idea,” Jon says. “But there’s a little more to it than that if you’re to get it right.” 

“Ah. You mean the voices? Let me just stop you right there, boss, keep you from wasting your time – never going to happen,” Tim says. 

Jon falters, taken aback. “Excuse me? What – what voices?”

Melanie snorts. “God, is that what this is about? We aren’t being theatrical enough for you, seriously?” 

“I don’t – I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Sure you don’t,” Tim says. “Listen. What you have to do to keep work interesting is your own business, but personally, if I’d wanted to move into the entertainment field, I’d have stuck with publishing. They’re statements, not a radio drama. I’m not going to read them like one.” 

Jon glowers at him, his voice tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Since there seems to be some confusion, let’s have a listen to one of the statements in _question_ , shall we?” 

Jon presses the playback on his recorder and Tim’s long-suffering sigh comes from the machine along with an undercurrent of static. “Statement of, ah...Benjamen Hatendi. Hateendi...ugh...regarding, uh...ah...blanket, a dead friend, monster... Regarding his _unavoidable_ and gruesome end. How he tried to hide – he couldn’t. Statement is from...ugh. 1983, March 2nd , and I guess...ugh...I guess I’m doing this one. Tim Stoker. Archival assistant. Archival prisoner...at the Magnus Institute. Statement. My parents never let me have a night light, I was always afraid but they would just – ugh. Wh – this is stupid. This is stupid. Look, look, if anyone’s listening to this _useless_ tape, it was stupid when Jon was doing it, and it’s stupid now. I mean just – what's the point? We might as well be engraving them on wax cylinders, wh – whoever's listening to this, right now, you’re wasting your time. And if you work for the Magnus Institute, get out. If you can. I mean, that’s what really pisses me–” 

Jon clicks the recorder off and crosses his arms, eyes narrowed. “Well?” 

Tim heaves a rattling sigh. “Are we really doing this? You’re going to take offense at that? Listen, I never made any secret about what a waste of time I thought it was to digitize documents we already have on file. This is petty, even for you.” 

“I don’t care about that,” Jon says, frowning and waving the recorder. “I care that you – that you spoiled the integrity of the statement with your personal grievances.” 

Tim splutters. “Spoiled the integrity of – Jon, seriously, listen to yourself. Who gives a shit? And not to mention, it’s not as though you don’t bitch and whine into those recordings plenty – don’t lie, I’ve heard you doing it.” 

Jon flushes and raises his chin, summoning all the haughtiness he can, however hollow it might be. “I’d appreciate it if you’d watch your language, Tim. This is still our workplace, and I am still technically your boss. You are free to add personal reflections at the beginning or the ending of a recording, if you feel compelled to. That’s not the issue.” 

“Then what, oh almighty archivist, is the issue?” 

“You have to introduce the statement properly, and once you start, you need to set yourself aside. No – no cross contamination. There’s a certain – order, to the words, and you have to – you have to do it right, and the same way, each time, or else – it's not whole, it’s not right.” 

Tim stands, takes a step towards Jon with his hands clenched at his sides. He stops when Jon mirrors him by taking a step backwards, something like fear flashing in his dark eyes. Tim swallows down his sympathy. There was no space for it any more. “Get a grip, Jon,” he says. “Seriously, listen to yourself. You’ve always been particular, but for god’s sake, you’re – you sound _possessed_ , or something. Don’t you see what he’s doing to you, to all of us?” Tim says, gesturing behind Jon at Elias’ office. “This isn’t you. Or at least, it wasn’t always. This is – something else, and I don’t want any part of it. But I guess I don’t have much of a choice,” Tim says, trailing off in defeat as the fight drains out of him. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

Jon clutches the recorder, staring down at the ugly carpet in silence for a moment. His voice is small and carefully neutral when he says, “I just need them done a certain way, is all.” He gathers his wits and looks up, his gaze sharp and his voice stronger. “Melanie did an all right job, though I have some pointers for her as well. Martin, you too, you did, ah, well. Well enough.” 

Melanie presses one hand dramatically to her chest. “Oh god, what a gift – backhanded praise from our illustrious leader who can do no wrong. I will treasure this moment always, Jonathan.” 

Jon frowns and clears his throat. “Well. I did say it could use a little work.” 

“By all means, oh mighty one, _please_ enlighten us poor ignorant inferiors.” 

Jon sniffs and glares at her. “Please stop that, Melanie. You’re making me uncomfortable. But fine, I will show you how I would introduce this statement. You don’t have to do it the exact same way, obviously, but you should – should have your own way of doing so, that’s consistent, and uninterrupted by personal thoughts. All right.” Jon clears his throat and begins, and the tape recorder in his hand clicks on. He doesn’t seem to notice and the rest of them don’t bother pointing it out. “Statement of Benjamin Hatendi, regarding a reckoning with a childhood fear of the dark. Original statement given March 2nd, 1983. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.” 

The moment Jon began introducing the statement, his voice shifted. The strain and uncertainty left it to be replaced by brisk self-assuredness, unhurried and controlled. Once he was finished, he paused for a moment, finger twitching on the recorder as if to switch it off and move on with lecturing them, and then a sort of slight spasm went through him and his eyes glazed over and he continued to speak, his voice altering as he did so. Not to the extent that it was a stranger’s voice coming from his mouth, but close enough to be uncanny, and Martin suppressed a shudder at the sudden impression of Jon as an extension of the recorder in his hand, playing back, mechanical and puppet-like, a ventriloquist’s dummy with a cassette sitting at the back of his throat speaking through him. 

“My parents never let me have a night light. I was always afraid, but they were just that sort of stubborn which doubled down when I screamed or cried about something, instead of actually listening. So no matter how terrified I might have been, I would always end up sleeping in the dark.” 

“Is he really going to read the whole thing to us?” Basira muttered. “Because if so, I’ve got some filing to do.” 

“I already read that one, and I did a fine job,” Melanie said. “You’ve made your point, okay, now stop.” 

“He’s – he’s not reading,” Martin said. 

“I _wish_ he wasn’t,” Tim said, glaring at Jon, who was still speaking the statement. 

“No, he – he doesn't have the statement with him,” Martin said. “He’s just – saying it.” 

“Oh. _Oh_ ,” Melanie said. “That is – freaky. Jon, stop. We get it. We suck at reading statements, you’re the master of amateur voice acting, lesson learned.” 

“This is sick,” Tim muttered. 

“Jon,” Martin said, stepping forward tentatively. “Would you – can you stop?” 

Jon’s hazy eyes focused on him and he faltered, then went quiet, blinking at Martin in irritation. It reminded Martin of the look of someone woken abruptly from a deep sleep. “What?” Jon snapped. 

“It’s just – you don’t have to re-record the whole thing. Melanie already did it.” 

“I’m not – of course I don’t, I wasn’t going to – oh. I see,” Jon said, looking down at the tape recorder in his hand. He looked up at Martin with an uncharacteristic hint of vulnerable uncertainty in his gaze, and gave a sheepish, self-conscious laugh. “I guess I – got carried away. That – can happen, sometimes. One of the hazards of, of statement reading, as I’m sure you’ve all – all realized, having done it yourselves.” 

“Nope. Can’t say I have,” Tim said. 

“Well – it happens sometimes,” Jon finished lamely, casting a lost look down at the recorder. 

“How’d you know what it said?” Melanie asked. 

Jon looked up at her, brow wrinkled. “What?” 

“The statement. How’d you know the lines?” 

“I don’t – what?” 

“You weren’t reading off the paper.” 

“Of course I was reading off the – oh. I – well, you already recorded it once, that must be – that must be why. That hasn’t happened before, I mean not with a, a fresh one. I guess I just – just remembered, since I listened to your recording. 

“Hell of a memory you’ve got,” Basira said. “Must be convenient.” 

Jon smiled tightly. “Yes. Yes. Good memory. That’s all.” 

“Oh, definitely,” said Tim. “Not that this place is turning you into some kind of abomination with a tape recorder for a brain and statements coming out your ears. Couldn’t be that.” 

Jon flinched. “D-don’t say that.” 

Tim’s gaze narrowed. “Why? Does that bother you?” 

“Of course that bothers me,” Jon hissed, his voice sharp with undisguised fear. “Don’t you think – don't you know I–” 

“What? It was just a little joke, Jon, about your workaholism, but by all means, please tell us why it’s struck a chord. You don’t have any reason to think this place might be turning us all into monsters, do you? Not like Sa – ugh.” 

“Stop,” Jon says, his voice strained and tremulous. 

He needn’t have bothered. Tim had lost all momentum at his own mention of Sasha and now sat still, looking tired and drained. He sighed. “It...doesn’t really matter, does it? Not like there’s anything we can do about it, I guess.” 

“That’s not happening, Tim,” Jon said. “I won’t let it happen.” 

“I appreciate the sentiment, boss. But I don’t really think you have much of a say in what goes on around here. I think it has a say in you.” 

Jon clutched his recorder and looked down. His voice was restrained and stuffy when he said, “I was going to also address your abysmal recordings of statements taken direct from subjects. They were – alarming, to say the least. Alarmingly incompetent, that is. But I think – I think that’s enough for today, I need to...you’ll all just have to work on your interviewing skills, or else leave taking direct statements to me.” 

“My interviewing skills are just fine, thanks very much,” Melanie said. “It was the strangest thing – the statement givers were just incoherent. And then I realized, no, this is _normal_ – what isn’t normal is how eloquent they normally are. When they’re talking to you. What...why is that, Jon?” 

Jon wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I-I – I don’t – I’m a good listener?” 

“Daisy and Elias, weren’t they just saying something about you – _compelling_ people to tell you–” 

“No,” Jon said, cutting Basira off. “No, that’s – I don’t know what that’s all about yet, it’s not – I don’t _make_ people tell me the statements, they want to talk. It’s – it’s completely voluntary. That’s how it’s always been. I don’t have – I can’t – the simplest explanation is the correct explanation. Is it not much simpler to believe that all of you just have poor bedside manner when it comes to statement givers than it is to think that I have some kind of – of power, or something?” 

“No. Not really,” said Tim. 

“It is,” Jon snapped. “This conversation is over. We’ll – continue training later, I have – I have work to do.” 

He crossed the room and went back into his office before any of them could stop him. Not that they would. Why would they? They were all probably glad to have him away. 

He sank into his chair and slumped against his desk, idly playing with the tape recorder. There was an itch at the back of his skull. He bit his lip. He could do some filing to take his mind off the steady compulsion building behind his teeth, beneath his tongue, inside his head. He could organize his paperclips by size and color. He could alphabetize the filing cabinet, he could...but who was he kidding? 

The tape recorder clicked on of its own will and he sank further down in his chair and gave in, released a shaky breath. He clutched the recorder close to his face and murmured, “statement resumes,” and then he finished Benjamin Hatendi’s account through to the end. 

By the end of it he only felt worse – the statement was stale, used, had failed to scratch the itch in his brain. Jon rubbed his eyes, ignored the burning ache behind them, and switched the recorder off, holding his finger on the button for fear that it would click back on and fill the air with its hateful monotonous whirring. He sat very still. If he could be very quiet and very still, then maybe the danger would pass them by overhead without taking notice, and they would all be spared from further harm. If he could only stay very still. 


End file.
